


A Voice on the Other End of the Line

by just_another_tinker



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crimes & Criminals, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Murder, Murder Mystery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Podcast, Protective Steve Rogers, Secret Identity, Steve Rogers Feels, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-10-31 09:04:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17846462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_another_tinker/pseuds/just_another_tinker
Summary: “Now, as usual, we asked you guys a question that we would discuss during today’s episode. Last week’s question: if you knew it was your last day alive on Earth, how would you spend it?”Steve looked down at the sheet in front of him, their listeners replies typed out on the page. He scanned a few, glazing over the plain and blatantly offensive answers. He found himself freezing as his eyes trailed over the last reply.Iron Man: I would make sure they remembered me.It was him.------------------------------------------------------------Tony Stark is a convicted criminal on the run, charged with a slew of murders of his own employees. His trial is set to be the most sensationalized, high-profile case since OJ Simpson. Well, it would be, once they found him.Steve Rogers is the host of an unpopular podcast, The Round Table, contacted by the FBI to use his platform to locate one of his listeners, the serial murderer known as The Merchant of Death.





	1. Chapter 1

The shrill beeps rang loudly through his ears, each tone like a hammer against his skull. As if he couldn’t read.

_CARD DECLINED_

Steve let out a controlled breath, glaring down at the tiny machine. He thought about the satisfying sounds it would make if he crushed it in his hands.

He could hear a soft sigh emanate from the other side of the register, the tenor laced with irritation. Steve clenched his jaw, but otherwise ignored the cashier, opting to insert his plastic card into the reader for a third time.

He wasn’t sure why he let himself hope for a miracle that he knew wasn’t coming. The machine had just barely begun to beep before Steve whispered a quick _“Fuck it,”_ under his breath and grabbed his card out of the reader before just walking away, leaving his unpaid and bagged groceries behind. He could hear a few rude remarks and shouts follow him on the way out, but he ignored them, stepping out of the store and onto the street. _Not my problem anymore._ But while the abandoned groceries weren’t his problem, the reason for the lack of purchase of said groceries certainly was.

He could have sworn he’d sent in another minimum payment, but maybe it had been the month before? He knew it was a matter of time before the credit card company would stop throwing him bones, but a little warning would have been nice. Well, maybe there had been warning, but both he and Bucky had an aversion to looking at mail covered in bold, red writing.

 _What the hell am I gonna do?_ he thought to himself as he started the walk of shame back to his apartment. The need for a second job seemed to increase with each passing day, especially with the increase in rent and Bucky’s therapy bills. _More like third job, really. Who needs sleep anyway?_

Steve groaned, and quickened his pace, rounding the last corner before coming up to his apartment complex. Complex being the polite term, as it looked more like it belonged in the ruins of Chernobyl instead of the heart of Brooklyn.

He stomped up the three flights of stairs, his feet heavy and uncaring of the tenants around him. He sidled over to a door marked as _3A,_ with the _A_ crooked and barely hanging on to where it was nailed to the door. Steve reached in his pocket for his key and unlocked the door, the _A_ swinging as it opened.

Immediately, he could feel some of the tension leave his body, meeting the comforting scene of the ramshackle hovel he called a home. Steve walked through the entryway and tugged off his jacket, hanging it neatly on a set of hooks on the wall.

“I thought you were going shopping?” a voice came from the couch. His roommate, Bucky, laid sprawled out on the furniture, gray eyes flickering momentarily to Steve’s empty hands before they slid back towards the television. He was already in his uniform, donning even his jacket and shoes. No doubt the man was waiting until the very last second until he had to leave for his _‘own personal hell’_ as Bucky liked to call it, working desk security for a corporate office in Manhattan.

Steve sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. “Was too tired. I’ll go tomorrow,” he lied.

Bucky shrugged. “I think we’ve still got some pasta in the cupboards. Besides, Nat’s coming over tonight, and if I pout long enough, she’ll buy us Chinese.”

Steve grimaced at the thought of another charity, another crutch he found himself leaning on. They shouldn’t have to take care of him. He shouldn’t be their responsibility. It was an age-old argument, and after what happened this morning, one that Steve was not ready to rehash again.

“What are you watching?” he asks instead, shuffling over to the couch.

“News,” Bucky murmured. “They’re burying that girl today.”

On the screen, clips cycled through of people in black, flowers and candles lining the grass, and a weeping mother. Text scrolled across the bottom of the video.

_RIRI WILLIAMS LAID TO REST_

Steve sucked in a breath as the victim’s image popped up. She was so young; he hadn’t realized how young. Another innocent life taken. After spending years in the Middle East, Steve should have been used to death. He wasn’t blind to it; he would be an idiot if he didn’t understand the cost of war. But he still found himself struggling. When he was deployed, it was easy for him to envision home as a utopia, a haven away from the blood and the screams. But coming back to America to realize that horror and death still lurked even their streets, it was enough to break the illusion.

It wasn’t even a few weeks ago when the story had first come out. Before, no one had even thought this could happen, hell, half of the world didn’t even know that these deaths were happening. But when it came, it was a bombshell. A whole slew of deaths, once thought to be accidental, now being linked as possible murders. An illusive killer on the loose, leaving no trail, no motive, and worst of all, no pattern.

The victims ranged all across the spectrum in age, race, and even gender. They happened over a multitude of states, some bunched together quickly, others separated by months at a time. In fact, there was so little information about these murders, it was almost impossible how someone had managed to link them together.

The media was claiming the connection of at least twelve victims, as per their police sources tell them. _At least._ Since these deaths – _murders –_ were originally ruled as accidental deaths, there was no telling how many actually fell victim to this unknown killer.

The public, of course, was in a panic. At least they were, after someone threw the term _serial killer_ into the mix. The next Zodiac, the next Bundy or Gacy. Hiding in plain sight, no one ever giving them a second glance. The irregularity of the killings was scary enough, but the gall of the murders, the lack of clear motive, seemingly only being influenced by the thrill of the kill, was downright terrifying.

“Makes me sick,” Bucky added, before turning the TV off. “But, enough of that,” he continued, standing up with a faint grown. “Time to go protect the 1% from us middle-class hooligans.” He slapped a hand against Steve’s shoulder as he walked by. “Go get some sleep, Stevie. And don’t worry about the groceries, I’ll get them on my way home.”

Steve risked a glance over at his friend and stared into his knowing eyes. Steve opened his mouth to protest, but Bucky cut him off. “I don’t want to hear it,” he quipped, dashing towards the door. “You can’t yell at me if I’m not here.” And with that he gave Steve a final smile, blew him a kiss, and headed out the door.

Steve huffed out a laugh before letting the silence envelope him. Of course, it wouldn’t be like that for long. Just like Bucky, everyone else would be getting ready to start on their morning grind. Working nights and coming home to rest when everyone else started their days seemed like it would have been an issue, but Steve actually found he liked it, able to slip off into a dreamless sleep to the comforting sounds of the neighborhood.

His stomach grumbled, and he sighed. If his grocery trip had been successful, he’d have started to make his morning dinner. He thought of the noodles Bucky had mentioned, but Steve decided against it, opting to snag an apple from the fruit bowl on their kitchen table. _Stolen fruit, no less,_ he chuckled to himself as he took a bite.

_“I’m not stealing the damn fruit, Stevie. You should see the display they have in the break room, it’s massive. Anyway, as an employee, especially one that has to deal with their rich asses all day, I think I’m entitled to however many bananas I want. Guess how many I can fit in my pants?”_

Steve shook his head, unwanted memories of Bucky pulling fruit out of his trousers filtering through his head. _Don’t think about where it came from, just be happy for free calories,_ he thought to himself. He toed his shoes off, kicking them towards the general direction of the front door before turning around, intent of heading to the bathroom to start up the shower. His journey was stopped however, by the ringing of his cell phone.

He glanced down at the screen, frowning at the unknown number that blinked up at him. Calling from the capital, as well. He tapped the decline indicator on his screen.  

He had just placed his phone back down when it started to ring again. The same number. Steve looked at the number, _Washington D.C_ listed underneath. Maybe it was Sam? Steve had his personal cell, but he could be calling from a work number.

Placing the apple down, he wiped his hand on his pants quickly before answering the call. “Hello?” he answered.

 _“Is this Steve Rogers?”_ That definitely wasn’t Sam. _Telemarketer._

“I’m not interested,” Steve answered immediately, before dropping the phone away from his ear and ending the call.

Moments passed before his phone was ringing again.

Steve huffed, jamming the phone back against his ear. “Listen, pal, I’m not interested in what you’re selling. Fuck off, alright?”

_“I’m not selling anything, Mr. Rogers. I just want to talk.”_

“And who the hell are you?”

_“Special Agent Nicholas Fury. FBI.”_

Steve snorted into the phone. He had to hand it to the guy; that wasn’t one you heard every day. “You expect me to believe that?” Steve scoffed.

_“No,” came the gruff reply. “From what I’ve read, you’ve got your head on straight.”_

_Read?_ Steve’s frown deepened. “What are you talking about?”

“ _I have a few questions for you. I was hoping we could talk.”_

“Sorry, but I don’t feel comfortable talking to you over the phone.” _Or ever again,_ Steve didn’t add.

 _“I figured. Not a problem.”_ Three sharp knocks rapped against his apartment door, and Steve jolted, his free hand already reaching for the gun he knew wasn’t there. _“Answer it,”_ the voice over the phone said.

Against his better judgement, Steve rushed over to the door and flung it open. There stood a hulking man wearing a tailored black suit, phone pressed to his ear, with dark skin, and piercing eye – _wait, what?_ Steve’s gaze remained transfixed on the eyepatch pulled over his bald head.

“Rogers, I presume?” the man asked. Steve could hear his voice reverberate through the phone that was still pressed to his ear.

“Yes?” he answered dumbly.

The man nodded, tucking the phone away before tugging out a badge, handing it over to Steve. Steve took it gingerly, looking down at the ID, the FBI badge shining underneath. “Special Agent Fury,” the man repeated, gesturing at the license, where the same name was typed neatly on the laminated card.

“Huh,” Steve uttered.

“Still think this is a prank, or do I pass muster?”

Steve gave Fury another once over, handing the badge back. “Seems like a lot of trouble to go through just to punk someone,” he said. That and, even if it was a scam, Steve had every confidence that he would be able to overpower the older gentlemen. “What can I do for you, Sir?”

“May I come in?”

 _No,_ Steve thought, even though his body disagreed, shuffling over to the side to let Fury in the threshold. The man glanced over his apartment silently. What in the hell did the FBI want with him?

Steve watched as Fury ambled over to his kitchen table, plopping down in the nearest chair without an invitation. The chair creaked threateningly under the weight, but that was nothing new; the pair of antique seats that were salvaged from a Queens curbside seemed to protest anything over a sack of potatoes.

Fury looked at him from where he sat, his eye as blank as the rest of his face. _I know that face._ A military man, for sure. Stoicism was always a requirement when taking a job under the uniform. A blank canvas, one that would never crack, never showing emotion. Never showing weakness.

_“This uniform is more than fatigues, gentlemen. When you put these on, you wear the American flag. You wear our country,” Phillips gruffed, pacing in his tent. “You are the first thing our enemies see. What do you want them to remember about you? You want them to see you cowering, trying to blend in with the sand or do you want them to see you standing tall under the desert sun? You are the face of our founding fathers fighting against the redcoats with pitchforks. You are the face of the soldiers that waded through the waters of Vietnam, and of our brothers that stormed the beach in Normandy. You are the face of the American Army and no matter what stares you down, you will not break.”_

Steve could still hear the deafening roars of his unit that answered his commanding officer. _Hooah!_

Most of those voices didn’t come back after that day. They lived and fought with a military face, and they died with one too. Those that survive the war, well, they keep it on too. It might be because they’ve worn it for so long that they don’t remember how to take it off. More likely it was because it was a face for the battlefields, and there’s no greater battle than the one they fight when they get home.

They’re easy to pick out in a crowd. Overlooked by most, but not by Steve. Not by anyone who’s worn the fatigues. They’re drawn to each face, staring at it like they were looking in a mirror. Knowing eyes and a faint nod, the only confirmation that they as well share the look. That they’re stuck with it too.

Steve remembered how his mother had lamented when he first came home from basic training, back before he even knew what the face was. But she had seen the beginnings of it, even then. _“Look what they did to you,”_ she had whispered, thumb rubbing over his cheekbone. _“Those drill sergeants sucked the heart right out of you.”_

Steve had just pushed her worry off, easing her attention towards fickle distractions until the topic was forgotten. And it was, until Steve shipped off for the first time.

 _“Don’t let them take everything, Steve,”_ his mother had whispered into his ear as they hugged in the airport. He remembered her tiny hand pressing down over his heart. _“They took all of Joe, but I can’t let them take you too. Don’t let them take my boy.”_

He knew then that she wasn’t talking about combat. They’d lost his father to the bottom of a bottle, not a bullet. Most soldiers don’t die from the war, they die from what comes after. And that had terrified his mother.

But he’d kept his promise. He came back from his first tour relatively unscathed. He even went back for a second, ending seemingly more uneventful than the first. He went and came back, each time a little more rugged than before, but he was still able to keep a smile on his face whilst at home. He kept his promise.

But Ma didn’t.

She spent years lecturing him – whether it was said with frustration after piecing him together after scraps in an alley, or comfortingly as his thin frame shivered under hospital sheets, fighting off the latest infection. _“You’re all I have, you know. You need to take better care of yourself. For my sake.”_ But did she ever stop to realize that she was all Steve had?

She didn’t tell him until it was too late – maybe it had always been too late. To this day, he still wasn’t sure if it was a blessing or a curse that he has managed to be by her side when she took her last breath. She was gone. And well, if she couldn’t keep her promise, then why the hell did Steve?

“Rogers?”

Fury’s voice pulled him from his thoughts and he clenched his fists, willing away the ghosts that lingered. He looked back at Fury’s face. Still nothing. “Can I get you something to drink?” Steve asked carefully. “I can offer you,” he paused, eyes darting to the fridge momentarily, “water?”

Fury husked out a faint chuckle. “No, thank you. I won’t overstay be welcome. I just have a few questions.”

Maybe it was a surprise checkup? Steve had required meetings with an Army ordered shrink once a month. _To make sure you’re doing alright,_ they had told him. Steve had scoffed at the blatant lie. _More like to make sure I keep my trap shut,_ he had thought to himself. Steve had thought he passed with flying colors each time – _no domestic terrorism here, no Sir_ – but maybe his therapist didn’t think so. He wasn’t sure how Dr. Coulson would be able to determine if he’d been selling classified secrets without directly asking him, but that man was an enigma. Hell, he probably knew more stuff about Steve than he knew himself.

Why the FBI would be interested in past Army operations was anyone’s guess, but it wasn’t that surprising. If Steve had learned anything about the government and how it worked, it was that everyone had their claws in each other, a messy web of bribes, secrets, and lies, somehow holding up the foundations of one the world’s largest superpowers.

“No problem,” Steve lied. “What do you need to know? Sir.”

Fury looked around the cramped kitchen, eyes locking on the far corner. “You run a podcast,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “ _The Round Table,_ correct?”

“Yes,” Steve answered, following Fury’s gaze to where Steve and Bucky housed the recording equipment, microphones and wires spilling out of the plastic tub they sat in.

_“Dammit, Barton, would it kill you to wrap the cords nicely?”_

_“Oh, relax, mother, they’re fine. You worry too much!”_

_“I swear to God, if any of these break, you’re paying for the replacement.”_

“I listened to a few of them on my way up here,” Fury continued. “I was particularly keen of your bonus episodes.”

Steve nodded numbly, looking down at his hands. Of course he would be. _Diaries of a Discharge_ had originally been Clint’s idea. The rest of them were skeptical of the whole thing; they were just like everyone else with a military face, acknowledging others that had it, giving them a wide berth, but otherwise resorting to licking their wounds in private, or better yet, pretending like they didn’t exist. The fact that Clint had even broached the subject was enough set off red flags.

But, Steve had casually mentioned it to Coulson at their session and the man was over the moon about the concept. In fact, it was that reaction of the usually unflappable man that got Steve thinking about, and eventually agreeing to record.

 _Diaries of a Discharge_ is a bonus podcast the group puts out every two weeks – on top of the weekly _Round Table._ The show was targeted towards veterans, who seemed to be a majority of their listeners anyway. There was never really an agenda, just Steve and his friends crowded around the microphones, explaining the struggles of living life after war. How hard it was to sleep on a soft bed sometimes, how spilled wine smells like copper, how the flash of a camera or the boom of a firework could send someone spiraling.  

There wasn’t a lot of interaction with the listeners, but Steve hadn’t expected there to be. He always struggled with the sharing part of therapy, being put on the spot in front of Coulson, the man seemingly ready to pick each thing he said apart. One of the main reasons for this additional podcast was to offer a therapy feel for other veterans, but without forcing them to delve into their personal horrors, giving them a chance to learn and heal through hearing others’ stories.

There were a few callers that would share their experiences and tips. Steve’s favorite was Sam Wilson, a vet working at a VA office down in Washington D.C. He was a regular caller, and always offered words that seemed wise beyond his years, as well as helpful programs to get them back on their feet. Sam had even promised to stop by and record with them in person this spring, when he’d come up to New York for a friend’s wedding.

“A lot of soldiers have a hard time moving on, after they get back,” Steve murmured lowly. “Myself included. It’s difficult to come to terms with the fact that we’re still fighting over here.”

“PTSD. The forbidden word,” Fury replied. “A fault in society’s eyes. A weakness. One we’re taught not to have.”

_You are the face of the American Army and not matter what stares you down, you will not break._

_You will not break._

“A lot of us just try to ignore it, and those who don’t usually can’t afford to get help,” Steve shrugged. “The least I can do is offer a free podcast twice a month to let people know that they’re not alone.”

_I see your face, I wear it too._

Fury hummed, but didn’t move to continue the conversation. Steve felt his leg start to twitch as he started to get antsy. “Why are you here? Is it about the podcast?”

Dear Lord in heaven he hoped not. He knew that he shouldn’t have let Clint get that soundboard. He thought it was hilarious, adding in ridiculous, and mostly mocking, sounds as they recorded. The last thing they needed was Fury slapping a copyright infringement in his lap and a hefty fine to go with it.

“You’re not in any trouble, son,” Fury placated. “Relax.”

_I can’t, not with you here._

“But it is about my podcast?” Steve asked.

Fury nodded. “I’m working a case. I’m sure you’re familiar with it; the media certainly loves making a spectacle,” Fury growled. “What are they calling it now? _The Murders by Accident?”_

Steve bit his bottom lip, thoughts trailing back to the news clips he’d watched earlier. A video of a funeral procession and a photo of a girl who would never smile again. “Yes,” he answered, finally. “I’m familiar.”

“Well, we think we’re finally closing in on someone.”

And wasn’t that a relief. Once the dots started connecting between these murders – originally considered to be accidental deaths – it seemed like law enforcement was running around like a chicken with its head cut off, struggling to find and clues on the murderer or even reasoning as to what they’re angle was. “I’m glad,” Steve offered. “Those families will finally get the closure they need.”

“We’ve hit a small snag, however,” said Fury. “Our main suspect is a wily one. We can’t find him. He must have known we were on to him, so he flew the coop.”

“What does this have to do with me?”

“Like I said, tracking him down has been a nuisance,” Fury continued. “We’ve tried to piece together a schedule, and routines that he may have had, but there’s nothing. A man of pure chaos, he is. That is, except for one thing, according to what we found on his personal effects. He does the same thing every Saturday at 1:00 PM, and every other Wednesday at 7:00 PM.”

Steve frowned at the confession. “He listens to my podcast?”

“Religiously,” Fury sighed. “His devices have every podcast downloaded. Our tech guys say he’s listened to every episode, a few multiple times. They say he’s even posted on your website before, anonymously, of course. We think he may have even called in before. Congratulations, you have a fan.”

Steve gaped at the other man. How the hell was he supposed to respond to that? Sorry my podcast apparently tailors to murderers? “I-I don’t- ” he paused. “I don’t have any of my listeners information, if that’s what you’re here for. I can show you downloads by username, maybe the donations page, but those are pseudonyms anyway, and- ”

Fury held up a hand to stop him. “Don’t bother. We’ve already looked.”

Steve frowned, biting down a comment of consumer privacies. “Then what do you need from me?”

“Well, if he knows we’re on his trail, he’ll be on the run. He’s ditched all his tech that we can track him too, but he’s smart. I have no doubt that he’s gotten his hand on new ones. But, if I know anything about criminals, is that they can’t sit still. Living off the grid is hard to do, but for someone who’s lived on the grid for his entire life, it’s damn near impossible.”

“And?”

“And he’s going to get bored.”

Steve froze. “You think he’s still going to listen to my podcast?”

Fury shrugged. “Even criminals need to pass the time. And considering how much he seems to enjoy the show, I highly doubt he’ll stop listening on account of murder charges. Especially since he has anonymity on his side. Even if he listens, it will be like finding a needle in a haystack made of other needles.”

“So, what are you asking me to do?”

“I’m asking you to help us find the right needle.”


	2. Chapter 2

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

He could hear Clint’s faint whining response to Bucky's question, no doubt muddled by the food he was still shoveling into his mouth. Steve chuckled to himself, throwing the plastic cartons and forks into the trash bag he held in his other hand.

It was Saturday, podcast day, and Steve was on edge. He knew he was meant to do something today, but he still hadn’t figured out what yet. Fury hadn’t called back since their initial meeting, leaving Steve to wonder if the conversation they had was even real.

The memories he had were real. And the sleepless nights he’s had since then were very, very real.

_“He listens to my podcast?”_

_“Religiously.”_

He couldn’t get it out of his head. The killer in their midst. The wolf in sheep’s clothing. He found himself manic, desperately searching for clues he knew weren’t there. When he was working, he constantly had an earphone in, listening to previous episodes and the callers they had on the air. When he wasn’t working he was on his laptop, scrolling through the open forum on their website, trailing back months and months, looking for anything and everything that said: _here I am, I’m the murderer!_

Logically, he tried to distance himself from the whole thing, but his pesky brain kept him up with ‘what-ifs’. _What if they never find him? What if the podcast influenced his actions? What if he’s coming for us next?_

Steve rubbed at his eyes. Part of him just wanted to cancel the podcast entirely. Whomever this criminal is, he shouldn’t have the luxury of listening to him each week. But he couldn’t find himself to do it. The podcast was all he had, really. It’s all they all had.

Steve had been skeptical of the whole idea, as had Bucky. They couldn’t exactly move past the words _down payment,_ stuck on the amount of red that would show up in their bank accounts for something that seemingly had zero return. But Clint was persistent, and his enthusiasm was infectious as always, chipping away at them until they caved.

Natasha has just shrugged. _“We were going to hang out anyway. Might as well record it.”_

And so _The Round Table_ was born.

Steve was never one to admit that it was actually fun, exciting even, but now, he couldn’t imagine going a week without it.

Steve remembered the first time they had gotten a donation. Clint had barged into their apartment, chest heaving as he held his laptop above his head like a trophy. Knowing that dumbass, he sprinted all the way to their building like that, touting the computer around like the Olympic torch.

They were all ecstatic of course, their very first glimpse at a positive payout. Those few seconds, those five dollars, had made months of empty pockets and stomachs worth it. To Steve, it wasn’t even the money, or the flicker of hope of finally paying off some bills that made it worth it. It was the taste of success, sitting heavy on his tongue, singing through his veins. It made him giddy, as if he was a child again, sickly face pressed against the window as he eyed the people below, his imagination running rampant at the possibility of a life outside their four walls.

_“I want to be like them,” he whispered between sniffles. “I want to see the world. I want to see the stars.”_

_“How do you climb a mountain?” his mother asked in return._ “ _One step at a time.”_

His mother had all kinds of promises for him. She would whisper them to him as he lay feverish in bed, as he walked to school, even as he left for basic. Frivolous dreams of course, but his mother had always been more stubborn than he was, so he was always inclined to believe them. Then she died, and well, Steve stopped believing in wishes.

That was, until the first donation hit. It was like hearing a forgotten melody or smelling his childhood home. It was like hearing his mother laugh again. A fragile hope that dangled in front of him like a carrot; a single drag was all it took, and Steve knew he was addicted, knew he would chase that feeling to the last drop, like an alcoholic to the bottom of a bottle.

They all argued what to do with the money. The excitement of the donation had everyone on a high, but it was just a sliver of a much larger picture. Should it go towards their loans? Should it be set aside and saved for better equipment?

In the end, they decided to waste the money immediately, spending it all on a small ice cream cake from a gas station a few blocks over. The four of them stood there in the parking lot, crowded around the melting cake, their plastic forks fighting for another scoop. Clint got the majority of his ice cream on his face, Bucky stained Nat’s shirt, and in retaliation, she shoved her fork into his prosthetic. And Steve? It was the happiest he’d been in a very long time.

Since then they had more than a few donations, a simple thank you from their loyal listeners, but it was never anything substantial. Not that Steve ever minded; he knew that their podcast was a small fish in a very large pond that was the world of broadcasting.

Every donation to them was heaven sent, but to Steve, that feeling was all he needed. A feeling that had never faded, never dulled, even months after their first recordings. Sitting with his friends, crammed around their small kitchen table, talking, laughing, _healing_ with an unknown audience.

This was his mountain.

Someone stepped into the living room. Natasha. She was wearing leggings and an oversized shirt, hair tossed up in a messy bun. Everything about it was so casual, but Steve didn’t know if it actually was, or if Natasha had spent hours trying to look that way. Knowing Natasha, it was the former. She managed to look good in anything; she could probably wear the hell out of a garbage bag if she wanted.

Steve eyed her shirt again. It was Clint’s; at least, he was pretty sure. Not that he ever remembered Clint wearing it, but he didn’t know anyone else who owned clothing with that many holes and stains. Didn’t matter, it still looked good on Natasha. Even after all these years, he’s never figured out the full extent of their relationship; Bucky knew about as much as he did. Of course, both were too chicken to ask, more than content to be left with their questions.

Natasha raised a single eyebrow, as if daring him to say something. Steve shook his head, leaning back over the coffee table to straighten up the aftermath of lunch.  

“You’re quiet today.” Steve frowned at Natasha’s tone. It was one he was all too familiar with. To an outsider, it seemed sweet, innocent even. But not to Steve. He knew that tone always came around with an equally soft face, as if she was trying to make herself less threatening. While it was a duo that had an exceedingly high success rate, it hadn’t worked on him in years. Not once he noticed her eyes. All knowing eyes, like that billboard in _The Great Gatsby,_ always watching, always calculating. He liked to imagine that Natasha played out an entire conversation in her head, even before she’s said the first word, playing out each possibility and tailoring her language until she got the result she wanted. Asking questions she already knew the answer too, making idle observations only to push and prod into her trap. It reminded him of a poem his mother used to read him.

_Will you walk into my parlour, said a Spider to a Fly.  
‘Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy._

Steve didn’t want to play her game today. He looked up at her, staring into her eyes. Like kaleidoscopes. Mesmerizing. _Tricking._ “Didn’t sleep too well,” he said nonchalantly, his shoulders shrugging.

_Oh, no, no! said the little Fly; to ask me is in vain:  
For who goes up that winding stair shall ne’er come down again. _

Emerald eyes narrowed. “Is that so?” she asked. They both knew he was lying. “You should have said something. We would have been quiet when we got here this morning if you wanted to sleep in.” 

_Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, Dear friend, what can I do  
To prove the warm affection I have ever felt tor you? _

“I’ll be alright, Nat,” he smiled. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

_Oh, no, no! said the little Fly; kind sir, that cannot be;  
For I know what’s in your pantry, and I do not wish to see. _

He could see Natasha tilt her head slightly, no doubt running through options of what to say next, but Bucky popped his head it and stalled the game. “You guys comin’? We’re ready to go.”

Steve blatantly ignored Natasha’s heated stare. “Coming,” he muttered, walking away from the redhead.

He joined Clint at the kitchen table, watching Bucky pull up another two seats from him and Natasha. Upon seeing the microphone in front of him, Steve started to feel an unsettling nervousness, one he hadn’t felt for a long time. When they first started the podcast he’d been petrified; public speaking always fit him ill, but riffing to an unseen audience was something else entirely. It took him weeks of recordings to handle the stress, of taking each podcast as just another conversation with his friends. It had been a while since he’d focused on the people listening to his voice. Mainly the singular person, _the murderer._

He’d struggled for days, trying to think of the right thing to say. What could he say? Fury was anything but helpful, and it wasn’t as if he could use past events as reference. He was on his own for this one, floating alone in an endless abyss of water. _It would be easier to just drown and get it over with._

A phone buzzed. 1:00 PM.

The three others at the table looked at him expectantly. He started every show, promptly at the beginning of the hour. Tardiness was one of the many things that was eradicated in the Army.

The seconds ticked on. Steve didn’t say anything.

Clint cleared his throat to his left before taking pity on Steve, jumping into the introduction. He could barely make out the words, it was so hard to hear underwater.

“-right, Steve?”

He didn’t know what the question was. _Say something._ Fury’s voice sounded in his head. _Help me find the right needle._

Steve sucked in a deep breath. “Before we start today, I would just like to say something. There’s been a lot of anger and confusion over the last few months due to _The Accidental Murders._ As soldiers, we’ve never been blind to violence, and its lasting effects. But sometimes, being faced with it at home is a tough pill to swallow. So, I would just like to take a moment to thank the police force that is working tirelessly around the clock to find answers. And to the families of those who have suffered loss, know that everyone here on this podcast, as well as _all_ of our listeners stand with you, and pray that you will find peace.”

 _“What the hell?”_ Bucky mouthed at him, but Steve just shook his head.

“Now, then,” Steve said, looking over at Clint. “What was our question for this week?”

Clint was looking at him with wide eyes, but dutifully broke his gaze to look at the paper in front of him. “Uh, well,” he started. “I’m not sure we ever finished last weeks question.”

“Yes, we did,” Natasha sighed, rolling her eyes. “You just don’t want to admit you’re wrong.”

“I’m not wrong! Having cold pizza the next day is as good as, if not better, than when you eat it fresh!”

Steve chuckled, the weight sitting on his chest lessening. “You’re a madman,” he chided.

He could still feel Bucky’s eyes on him.

\--------

“Want to tell me what that was all about?”

He didn’t hear Bucky approaching, but he didn’t startle at the question. It wasn’t surprising; Bucky had been around him long enough that no matter the blender of issues Steve had, he was always at ease with the other man near. It was if his body perceived Bucky as an extension of his own shadow.

“Steve.” Now _that_ was something to make him wary. Steve wasn’t sure how long it took him to acquire this special skill, but he was always able to tell what kind of mood Bucky was in based on how he said his name. Years of companionship had given Steve ample instances to here it every which way. Whether it was carried with a certain lightness as Bucky grasped at his sides as he laughed at Steve’s joke, or weighed down with anger, as the brunette pulled Steve out of another side street gutter to take him home and get him patched up. Or when it was engulfed by terrified desperation, the broken cry sounding over a crackling radio as bombs blew up around them.

This one was laced with a certain disappointment. Not as common, Steve had found. He and Bucky had been friends for what seemed like a Millenia, but Steve could still count on one hand the number of times he knew Bucky had been disappointed in him.

Steve hummed, not looking up from where he was untangling the mess of cords left behind by Clint, set on rewrapping the microphones neatly. For as many times as he’s chastised Clint for mishandling the equipment, his friend always had the same response: _“Please, like you wouldn’t redo them anyway. I’m just giving you a reason to put them the way you like without making you look crazy.”_ Steve frowned, tugging a plug to bend inward when he saw it sticking up from the wrapped wires. Maybe Clint had a point.

Bucky’s hand popped up in his view, long enough to shove the box of microphones away from Steve’s grip. Steve glared up at the other man, getting an equally icy glare in return.

“What?” Steve decided to bite.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I think you’d have to ask Dr. Coulson that,” Steve drawled. 

“You’re not funny,” Bucky answered. “I’m not kiddin’ around.”

“Then you’re going to have to be a little more specific, Buck,” Steve sighed. “Because I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“I’m talkin’ about today, on the podcast.”

Steve frowned, and could feel his fingers pinch at his skin. “What I said in the beginning? About the victims?” He shrugged, trying to play it off. “I thought it was nice.”

“No, not that, but we’ll come back to that later,” Bucky replied. “But I’m meant the whole thing. You were all over the place.”

“I’m sorry?”

Bucky let out a deep breath. “I haven’t seen you like this since you first set eyes on a microphone. The whole episode, you just- you weren’t right.”

“Not really clearing this up for me, Buck.”

“I know, I know, I just – I don’t know how to explain it. You were just off, that’s all.”

“Sorry?” Steve tried. “I mean, I’m not going to be on my A game all the time.”

“I know, but it just got me thinking, you know,” Bucky trailed off, giving Steve another look, like he wasn’t sure what Steve was going to say in response. “Maybe you should take a break.”

Steve frowned. “A break?”

“Well, yeah, you know the benefit of having our own podcast is that we can make our own schedule. I mean, a bunch of popular ones have seasons and shit, and take time off for the holidays. And you know, we’re not exactly on the trending list, so if we wanted to take some time away from it, no one would mind.”

“We have listeners,” Steve snapped in response. 

“We have _regulars,”_ Bucky corrected. “Loyal regulars, at that. Ones that won’t go cursing are names if we take a week off. Lots of podcasts take breaks.”

Steve finally looked up at the other man. “Is this your way of asking for more vacation days?”

“Steve- ”

“Because you do know that I’m not technically your boss,” Steve continued. “Buck, you can take a break from this if- ”

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky hissed, storming out of the kitchen. “I don’t know why I fucking bother.”

Steve gaped, his body already standing, intent on chasing after his shadow. “What, are you mad?”

Bucky spun around quickly, finger pointing accusingly at Steve. “Of course I’m fucking mad!” he shouted. “You always do this, Steve.”

“I do a lot of things.”

“And there it is again,” Bucky scoffed. “This game of chess that you insist on playing with everyone, this deflecting? It’s fuckin’ ridiculous.”

“Excuse me?”

“You bat people around like a ball of yarn until they leave you alone,” Bucky answered, crossing his arms. “God forbid you let anyone in when something’s bugging you.”

Steve fought the urge to twitch under Bucky’s gaze. “And what’s to say something’s bugging me?”

Bucky shot him an exasperated look. “Steve, you’ve been walking around this apartment like you’ve seen a ghost for the past three days. I haven’t seen you eat, you go in your room, but I don’t know if you’re sleeping. And today? I’m not even sure what you were doing during today’s podcast. I’m not an idiot, Steve. Something’s wrong.”

Maybe it wasn’t Natasha’s eyes he had to look out for. “It’s nothing, Buck,” Steve tried to placate. “Work’s been crazy, and I- ”

“Steve, you’re a janitor.”

“So, you’re saying that I can’t have stressful days?”

“No, I’m saying that you can’t bullshit me,” Bucky snapped. “I know this look; I’ve seen it before. You’re fightin’ with something, and you’re keeping it a secret. Remember the last time you kept secrets?”

Memories of the burning sun disappearing behind shell casings and burning debris filled his mind. “Don’t.” His voice was hoarse.

“No, that’s not- ” Bucky paused, regrouping. “You’re scarin’ me, Steve. I just –you gotta know that I’m here for you, right, pal? Whatever it is, you know you can tell me, right?”

_I’m with you till the end of the line._

The conversation was scarily similar to one he gave to Bucky, pulling him away from liquor bottles and letting the man weep on his shoulder, still mourning the loss of his arm. Steve swallowed the memory back down.

What would he tell Bucky? What could he tell him? Steve himself wasn’t even sure what was the matter. Maybe it was the fear of unwillingly becoming the cheese in the middle this game of cat and mouse. Or maybe it was the fear that it wasn’t unwilling; that it was anything but.

He’d played many scenarios over in his head the last few days, about what Bucky would say, what he would do. But now, being approached with the reality, Steve didn’t want any part of it.

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Steve grit out.

Bucky clenched his jaw and nodded slowly, accepting the defeat he knew was coming. “And who the hell are you trying to convince here?”

And suddenly Steve was angry, angry at Bucky for giving him that look, angry at himself for putting it there in the first place. Angry about Clint and those damn microphones, angry at Fury for even deciding to even call, angry at a nameless face, hiding in the shadows as he searched for another victim. _They were so young, so young, so young._

He pushed past Bucky and towards the door, the walls suddenly constricting and silently judging. He barely had time to shout a quick “I’m going out,” before he was out the door and running down the stairs to the fresh air, away from the Bucky’s questions, away from Natasha’s eyes, away from everything.

He sucked in a deep breath and forced his legs to slow to a stop. He hadn’t made it more than a few blocks, but he felt as if it had been miles by the way he was taking in fresh air greedily.

He knew he needed to turn around, needed to go back to Bucky. Needed to explain himself. _Who was Peter Pan without his shadow?_

But his legs were lead and his feet stone, and he remained frozen, listening to the city around him. That, and a familiar jingle.

Steve groaned as he tugged his phone out of his pocket. _Washington D.C._

“Hello?” Even he could hear his own irritation.

 _“Rogers,”_ Fury’s voice boomed through the phone. _“I listened to your podcast tonight.”_

“Oh, goodie. Are you going to leave a donation?”

_“You did well.”_

“Well, I seem to be getting mixed reviews on my performance,” he answered, wiping a hand across his sweaty brow as he eyed the traffic lights sway in the wind. Weather in the city was always a menace, but none more than summer. Each day had a person feeling like they were melting into the concrete, but even the nights, even after the sun long disappeared from the sky, did the weather continue to reign. The humidity hung in the air like a damp rag, and the city-folk would sweat and groan, and pray for winter. On the worst nights, on nights like this, the ocean would answer their prayers, and send a harsh breeze up the harbor and in between the buildings. It would blast over skin-soaked clothes and chill anyone right down to the bone, bringing with it the salt of the sea and the threat of a storm, enough to make anyone pray for the sun again. It was a vicious cycle.

Steve looked up, where the lights of the buildings around him were getting swallowed by passing clouds. _A storm, for sure._ He should head back if he wants to make it home before the first droplets fall. He wasn’t exactly thrush with shoes, and he certainly didn’t want to head into work tonight with sopping soles.

He shot another glare up at the sky, silently cursing the clouds. Not like there would be a much better view if it was clear. No stars; not this far into the city. His mother used to drag him onto the roof of his childhood apartment and say that New York had its own stars, ones that couldn’t be found anywhere else. The twinkling of the buildings around them, lights pulsing through the smog and pollution; their own personal Milky Way.

It used to satisfy him. That was, until he went to Afghanistan. He lost count of the times he found himself standing outside, head tilted back, mouth open wide, gaping like a fish. They all looked the same to him, but he could never find it in him to get bored, or to look away. He didn’t think he’d ever looked up more than when he was on tour. He sure as hell didn’t do it when he was at home. In fact, it was one of the easiest ways to tell the difference between a local and a tourist. Tourists look up; New Yorkers don’t. There was nothing up there of worth. No stars, just artificial lights; reminders of the millions who were also stuck in the concrete jungle, and looming buildings that, after a while, all start to look the same.

_“Rogers?”_

Steve shook himself from his thoughts. “Sorry, what?” He turned around, starting the trek back to his apartment.

_“I said that tonight was a promising first step. You should be able to push for more soon.”_

“What more do you want me to do?” Steve asked loudly. “My question of the week can’t exactly be hey, are any of you murderers?” A woman bustled past him, but didn’t give him a second glance after his outburst. _New York, New York._

 _“I don’t believe I asked you to do that.”_ His voice was patronizing.

“Then I don’t believe I can help you.”

 _“I doubt that,”_ came the retort. _“Rogers, I could have asked any of the others to help me with this. They all work on the podcast as well, it wouldn’t have been an issue. But I chose you for a reason.”_

“Oh yeah? And why’s that?”

_“I’ve read your reports. I know you have a knack for finding things.”_

Steve’s jaw ticked. “If you’ve read my reports, then you’ll know that it brings me nothing but trouble.”

_“Rogers, I didn’t call to argue with you. Clearly, this has been weighing heavily on you; it would on any decent man. But, if you really wanted out of this, you wouldn’t have answered.”_

Steve frowned at the man’s response. His tone. 

_The Spider turn’d him round again, and went into his den,  
For well he knew that silly Fly would soon come back again. _

“Maybe I had the decency actually pick up and tell you no.”

 _“Well, then what are you waiting for? You don’t seem like the kind of person to drag this out.”_  

Steve couldn’t muster up an answer.

 _“I can’t force you to do this,”_ Fury continued. _“You’re under no obligation. I have no doubt that our suspect will make a mistake eventually, but I didn’t want to wait that long. Eventually is a long time, a word that’s only used to lessen bad news. I used to hear it all the time in the service; I’m sure you did as well.”_

“And?”

_“And I thought that maybe you’d understand why we can’t wait for eventually. How many people has he killed? We don’t know. How long until he kills again? We don’t know. Has he killed again? We don’t know. Every minute we waste is another innocent life at risk. I know those are odds you’re familiar with. I need someone like you, someone that will get the job done. Preferably before eventually.”_

Steve slowed to a halt and shut his eyes. He could feel the beginnings of a drizzle hit his face.

_Alas, alas! How very soon this silly little Fly,  
Hearing his wily flattering words, came slowly fluttering by. _

“Fine.”

_“Good man. Now you should get inside. Looks like there’s a storm coming.”_

Steve forced himself not to look around his surroundings. He knew he wouldn’t find anything. “You know,” he sighed, “if this is one big elaborate plan just to accuse me of these murders, I’m going to be pissed.”

A low chuckle sounded over the phone. _“You can rest easy, soldier. We don’t suspect you.”_

“And who do you suspect?”

A pause. _“Have a good night, Rogers.”_

He heard the call disconnect, but he didn’t pull the phone away. For the first time in a long time, he wished he was still that snot-nosed kid, looking down at the people in the street, always at a distance, always _safe._

 _And now, my pretty maidens, who may this story hear,_  
_To silly, idle, flattering words, I pray you ne’er give ear;_  
_Unto an evil counsellor close heart, and ear, and eye,_  
_And learn a lesson from this tale of the Spider and the Fly._  


End file.
